Ness has no shame when it comes to you.

He used to—back when he thought pride mattered more than the way your voice makes his chest ache or how a single glance from you could leave him spiraling for hours. But now? He’s long given up pretending. The other players tease him for how whipped he is, how fast he runs to you after every match, how he lights up like the sun just from hearing your name. But Ness doesn’t care. Let them laugh.

You’re sitting on the bench waiting for him, legs swinging, wearing his jacket like it was always meant for you. And that’s all it takes—he stumbles toward you like a man starved. “I sucked today,” he whines, dropping dramatically at your feet, forehead resting against your knees. “I missed three passes because I kept thinking about you. You weren’t even in the stands, and I still couldn’t focus.”

Your fingers run through his hair without hesitation, and he practically melts on the spot.

“Maybe you should learn to concentrate,” you tease, but your tone is soft, indulgent. It makes his throat tighten.

“I can’t. Not when I don’t know where you are. Not when I can’t hear your voice,” he mutters, clutching the hem of your sleeve like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “I’m so pathetic, aren’t I?”

You hum, neither confirming nor denying it—and he knows you know it’s true. Still, you never push him away.

He looks up, eyes shining a little too earnestly. “Just... stay, okay? I don’t care how clingy it makes me look. I need you. You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel worth it.”

And when you lean down to kiss his forehead and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere,” Ness smiles like he’s just won the World Cup.

Because for him, loving you this desperately is the only victory that matters.